


Holding to the Ground

by APlagueOnBothYourHouses



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: A cop AU? In My Newsies fandom?, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crutchie deserves to say fuck so that's what I'm letting him do, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Friendship, I'm a sucker for buddy cop shit so here we are, I'm a sucker for italics and commas too I'm so sorry, Light Angst, Medda is the captain, Minor Character Death, Partnership, Spot respects Crutchie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-10 07:41:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12294483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APlagueOnBothYourHouses/pseuds/APlagueOnBothYourHouses
Summary: After Davey and Crutchie were ambushed and hurt two months ago in a deadly shootout, tensions are high. Someone is targeting District 12 after they put away Katherine’s step-father and well known criminal mastermind, Joseph Pulitzer.A few months have passed since the attack and the trail has started to go cold, then several other robberies take place, each with the same MO. One of those heists ends in a hostage situation and Spot, who came in after the initial shootout and is relatively new to district 12, is the only face the hostage takers don’t know. He alone has to infiltrate the store and try to save the hostages with backup just outside.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This came out of nowhere but here it is. Also my only excuse for that title is I was listening to Falsettos while writing, it's not really thematic.  
> Hastily written like everything else I write, I haven't really edited it so if there's obvious mistakes feel free to let me know! Idk why I'm imagining a mix between the offices of Hawaii five-0 and Brooklyn 99 but here I am, doing that.

Monday morning brought with it coffee and stress and reports. Medda Larkin was a patient woman, but copious amounts of political paperwork was one of the things she genuinely loathed… Especially when she could hear her little family of officers greeting each other from the bullpen. She wanted nothing more than to keep her people safe, but when her job was to fill out sheet after sheet of monotonous paperwork, Medda sometimes found herself longing for her old detective’s shield. The day had only just officially begun, but already Medda had a sick feeling pooling in her chest that something was going to go wrong. She heard the door to her office click twice as it opened, then closed. Ah yes, she rolled her eyes, Monday morning _also_ brought with it:

“You know, this is just a suggestion, but you… You don’t _have_ to keep me locked up here all the time.”

_Jack Kelly._

Medda looked up, exasperated, from her paperwork. With exaggerated movements, she placed her pen down and removed her glasses, giving Jack a look that clearly said she wasn’t going to change her orders but he was welcome to complain about it (again).

He frowned, disgusted at how whiny he sounded, “Medda-”

She cleared her throat loudly, “ _Lieutenant_ Kelly, while I encourage kinship within this district, I do _not_ encourage insubordination. It would serve you well to remember that no matter how fond I am of you personally, I am more fond of being respected while we’re working.” Even while reprimanding him, she was not unkind.

There was something special about Medda Larkin, she was definitely a hard ass but she was also a part of their adoptive family at district 12 and no matter what she was doing, there was always a graceful, thoughtful air around her. She was their boss, their friend, a motherly figure and one of the best damned cops Manhattan had ever seen. Only reluctantly had she taken the Captain’s desk over her livelihood as a Detective after being injured in the line of duty protecting orphans from The Spider’s human trafficking ring.

“... _Miss_. Medda.”

She fixed him with a pointed glare which, admittedly, still held little real heat behind it.

“ _Captain_ Larkin,” he stressed, then hesitated, speechless for once. Though after a moment, when she motioned for him to continue, he did, “I understand why I’m stationed here, I do… But _I_ was supposed to be in that convoy two months ago… I wasn’t and Cru- Officers Morris and Jacobs were the ones attacked and I _need_ to help find the people responsible. The trail is going cold and I… I have to do _something_.”

Medda sighed and smiled sadly, “Jack... Detective Kelly,” she amended, “I appreciate that you want to help catch the people that attacked your friends but… _You_ put Joseph Pulitzer away, his threats were directed at _you._ That attack was meant to kill _you_. The people who killed four of my men and hurt David and Charles are still out there and for all I know, you’re still their intended target. I know you know I’m not going to give you to them.” She inhaled slowly, upset to see such a wounded look cross her young Detective’s face, “so no matter how many times you appeal this, until these men are caught, Officer Higgins and Officer Conlon are going to be the ones investigating.”

She could tell her protege wanted to argue more, though whether it was because she had assigned an outsider to investigate or because Jack wanted to continue the dispute about his assignment riding his desk, she didn’t know. But he actually did respect Medda. In fact, he respected her far too much to do anything but nod dejectedly, momentarily conceding his point.

“Now,” she began, redirecting his attention from his frustrations and back to her, “I need to finish these _incident_ reports that _somebody_ got placed on _my_ desk.”

He offered her a sheepish grin, “Listen, how was I supposed to know Romeo was the one clunking around in my office? He could have been the assassin for all I know.”

“Get out, Kelly.”

* * *

 

Monday’s _sucked._ First of all, his partner listened to shitty music. Second of all, his partner never stopped talking and third of all, that fucker kept calling him-

“Spot listen to me, you can be as cranky as you want but you do _not_ snap at Davey like that.”

He grit his teeth together, shoving back the urge to turn the steering wheel ninety degrees to the left in what would be labeled a horrible accident but would actually be a murder-suicide to shut his partner’s ass up, “Higgins, I have told you time and time again, you can call me by my actual name or you can call me Officer Conlon… _Or_ I can stick my fist down your throat.”

Racetrack glowered at him for a moment before smirking and-

“Higgins-”

“That’s kinky, Spotty.”

_Fuck._

Spot had never wanted to be transferred to Captain Larkin’s 12th district in Manhattan but after an… Incident… with a child predator in Brooklyn, and the attack this department had faced two months ago, here he was. He’s sitting in a squad car next to the current source of his internal, because he’s learning _not_ to externalize his rage in department mandated anger management, seething: Antonio “Racetrack” Higgins. He hadn’t been in Manhattan for longer than a month and a half, but already his “relationship” with his partner was based on arguing about nothing and their mutual job. Before his transfer, he’d hated Manhattan. But now, he’s decided that he hates Manhattan _and_ everyone in it too… Except _maybe_ for Crutchie, and he was only the exception sometimes. It was hard to dislike the kid. He’d been through hell but he was still a kind guy with a wicked sense of humor. Hell, the guy’d embraced a nickname he’d received after almost _dying_ , he was all morbid humor and independance. Spot respected that. The _problem_ with Crutchie was that he was _too nice_ all the _goddamned time_ and it drove Spot crazy

So yeah, he hated Manhattan and he disliked District 12 and _god_ he couldn’t stand Race nine times out of ten. He knew it wasn’t very fair of him to blame all of his problems on his new district, but he couldn’t _do_ anything without hurting _someone’s_ feelings. Inevitably, whatever he’d done or said (on purpose or accident) made it back to Race and let any deity who wished to strike him down if his new partner _ever_ stopped pestering him about _everything_ he did or said to _anyone_ in _District fucking 12_.

“-ot, Spot! Earth to Spot! Yoohoo, can you hear me?”

“Can’t you just shut up for twelve seconds?!” Spot growled.

Pointedly, that little shit stared silently at him for exactly twelve seconds before inhaling dramatically and continuing with his previous point, “I said that you need to apologize to Davey.”

Spot scoffed, “Kid nearly punched me in the head.”

“Kid also apologized… Profusely. Furthermore, _you_ startled him first.”

“I just walked into the bullpen.”

“Yes,” Race muttered, “ and you didn’t announce yourself, and then you snuck up on him-”

“- I didn’t-”

“And then you startled him and he almost punched you and then _he_ apologized to you. But if you startle someone, you apologize. It’s simple math, Spot. Two plus two is four, if I scare you, I apologize. Easy. Plus, you know why he’s so jumpy because that’s part of why you were transferred _here_ after your uh, incident. It’s also our current case… So I think you need to stop being a dick and apologize.”

Spot nodded, “Okay, fine. I’ll apologize to Jacobs,” he held up a calloused hand to stop Race from congratulating himself, “but we are…. Ten minutes away from the District and you need to shut the fuck up for that ten minutes or Antonio, so help me, I will kill you myself.”

He was so busy looking everywhere but at Race that he didn’t notice the peculiar smile that adorned his partner’s face.

* * *

 

Fifteen blissfully silent minutes- and one apology- later, Spot found himself standing next to Race behind Crutchie’s desk chair as the young man talked them through surveillance footage of a bank robbery by who they _suspected_ were the same two mask-wearing assassins that were after Jack. The two well-built men, like most criminals, had a signature. So far, they had left a poker chip at each of their crime scenes, including the deadly attack on the police convoy.

“Police reports indicate that the same damn coin was at this bank when the cops moved in… Right on the counter.” Crutchie announced.

He replayed the video of the two men entering the bank, dropping the guard and grabbing the money in well rehearsed movements. The whole thing went down in under three minutes and since the tellers never got close enough to the emergency button located by the dead security guard, the police had only just been notified of the attack as the men were leaving. It was almost a perfectly executed heist.

“But why are they suddenly leaving such obvious breadcrumbs?” Race muttered, rhetorically, “Why not shoot out the cameras? Why miss something that could get them caught?”

Crutchie sighed, “I’m not sure yet. My running hypothesis is that they’re taunting us… _Trying_ to get our attention.”

Race’s brow furrowed thoughtfully, and he looked imploringly towards Spot, “Why? To get at Jack?”

Before Spot could respond, Crutchie did, “I mean, it makes sense. Think about it, they didn’t know who me and Dave were before when they attacked our group but by now with the media shitstorm they caused they _have_ to know we’re close to Jacky… They know they got his attention with that alone and if they’re trying to make him come to them for revenge so that they can finish their original job… Well, I think midday heists full of danger to civilians would do the trick nicely if Medda would let him pursue any of these leads.”

Antonio nodded thoughtfully, “it is a good theory, and you’ve got pretty solid intuition, C… Plus, if they hadn’t surfaced here, they probably would have gotten away with the original attack… Our only lead is a tentative connection between Pulitzer’s phone call to a burner phone from prison but it’s circumstantial at best. Even though we know he's behind this, we can’t _prove_ he’s the one who called the hit on Jack and we can't  _prove_ that these are his assassins... This must be the start of their next play.”

“And being that these guys are obviously very good at what they do, there’s no way they originally made such a clean getaway only to start fucking it up now,” Spot agreed, “So either this isn’t the same group, which I don’t believe for a second, or…”

“Or they aren’t done yet,” Crutchie finished.

It was a sobering thought. Spot hadn’t personally known the officers of district 12 for long, but he’d immediately noticed how much everyone cared for each other. They were a family, just like what he’d once had in Brooklyn, and they’d suffered a massive loss. Four good men died, two in a car bomb and two in the following firefight. Davey and Crutchie had been pinned down and injured. They probably would have died too had backup not gotten to them and run the two killers off. A little over two months later and Davey was a ball of anxiety while Crutchie was fighting to be able to walk again. Kid had taken a bullet to the leg that shattered his femur and caused fairly severe nerve damage in its wake. It was a miracle he was back in the office at all and he might not have been had Medda and Jack not wanted to keep him close.

Spot patted the kid’s shoulder in thanks and turned to his partner as they began walking to their own desks, “So, assuming we’re going to run with his theory… We need to figure out why they’re targeting the places they are and get on top of this… We might be able to bait them or something-”

“Obviously we aren’t going to give them Jack.” Race glared harshly at him when he bit back a startled laugh.

After a moment of intense glowering, Spot’s frown morphed into a sardonic smile. He chuckled and said: “ _Obviously_ not, Higgins.”

“If we’re in agreement there, what exactly is our plan?”

“Well, assuming we can… I figured we’d uh, oh I don’t know… Get them.”

“Get them? That’s your plan? Spot that’s _everyone’s_ plan! I mean what are we going to do to get them?”

Exasperated and wishing he had a bottle of booze with him, Spot plopped into his chair, “Well sorry, but I don’t have a step by step itinerary for when we finally stop these assholes… Hell, yesterday we _both_ thought they were in the wind!” His train of thought was broken by his colleague sticking his tongue out at him like a fucking infant.

A year ago, had he been stuck with a partner who disrespected him so blatantly all the time, Spot would have decked Racetrack Higgins in his stupid face twenty times on their first day together alone. A year ago, he’d been in a bad place in Brooklyn and he wasn’t in anger management therapy and he wasn’t an outsider at work. But now? Now he was working on his temper, so he only frowned in Race’s general direction and had to bite back an almost fond smile when the taller man raised his hands in surrender.

“Sorry, sorry… You’re right. Oh and hey.”

“What?”

“I appreciate that you actually apologized to Dave and didn’t sound like a dickhead.”

“... Well _I_ appreciate that _you_ didn’t talk to me for ten minutes. You should do that more often, man.”

Race snorted and Spot found that he rather preferred this playful bantering over actual hostility. It was… Nice to relax and know he was surrounded by people he could trust. It had been a while since he wasn’t constantly looking over his shoulder, waiting to be stabbed in the back.The contented spell they were under, and by extension the playful grins on their faces, shattered when Medda’s head poked out of her office and nodded at them to come to her. They had work to do.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As these chapters continue on they get less and less edited oops  
> I also continue my love affair with too many commas.

Upon entrance to Medda’s neat, well-loved office, Race immediately noticed Katherine Plumber-Pulitzer and Jack Kelly sitting across from the large mahogany desk in the center of the room. Like clockwork, every week since the attack and Spot’s transfer, Medda brought Race and Spot in to explain where they were with the case. Unlike every other week however, this time they had a tentative lead thanks to Crutchie.

“Gentlemen,” Medda greeted, “please, sit.” 

They did, and Race waved to his friends with a small smile. Katherine responded with a subdued grimace while Jack looked impatiently between them and their boss. No matter how much of an ass Jack made of himself, Race couldn’t bring himself to get irritated with him. He’d almost lost two people he loved in an attack meant for him, Race wouldn’t wish that horror on anyone else… Except maybe Pulitzer himself, and even then, he wouldn’t wish the trauma of what happened to Davey and Crutchie on another person. It was a real dilemma, his peace-loving nature was at war with his desire to see Pulitzer suffer the way his friends had. 

Never one to delay even the most uncomfortable of topics, Medda cleared her throat and asked for any and all updates. This was where, usually, Spot and Race had to report that they’d found nothing else concrete enough to link anyone to the attack. By this point in every other meeting, Race and Katherine had to prepare to break up a shouting match between their respective partners. Unfortunately for everyone involved, Jack was as high strung as he’s ever been, Spot wasn’t one to roll over and take getting screamed at and accused of mishandling his cases and both of them were too stubborn to back down. Cautiously, Spot and Race looked at each other, not intending to get everyone’s hopes up but also not wanting to crush their morale anymore than it already had been. Finally, after a silent debate, Spot shrugged and began speaking.

“Today, we reviewed security footage Officer Morris pulled of a bank heist. He believes this robbery to be linked to uh…  _ Our  _ attackers. We  _ think _ these guys are trying to bait us, though whether they expect to get Jack’s attention specifically or if they’re just trying to taunt the department for the hell of it, we aren’t sure.”

Jack snorted, “They’re probably doing both, let’s be honest here.”

Katherine nodded in agreement, “Assuming Crutchie’s right-”

“Which he usually is.” Race stated.

“-we need to assume that they have an actual plan, here.”

“A plan which they’re executing by purposefully leaving a mile long trail behind?” Medda questioned. Her brow was furrowed, and she was so focused on trying to figure out what was happening that she didn’t admonish Katherine for using an informal nickname during official business. The stress their plight placed on Medda’s shoulders was beginning to make frown lines form on her attractive face.

Spot glanced again at Race, wondering not for the first time if his partner knew what he was supposed to do. Another downside to being relatively new to this department was the fact that Spot didn’t always know how to communicate what he was thinking in a sympathetic way without first filtering it through Racetrack. He hated to admit it, but he really relied on his partner to make sure he didn’t make any enemies out of his District 12 colleagues. Spot’s unbiasedness was a key reason that Medda assigned this particular case as his first, but because of his status as an outsider, he wasn’t sure if his input would be valued at that moment.

After a bought of tense silence, Medda spoke resolutely, “I trust Officer Morris to know the men who attacked him, masks or no.”

Jack nodded harshly, “Yeah, me too…” He looked at Katherine sympathetically, knowing she felt guilt by association to her step-father, “Kath, have you gone over the list we dug up on Pulitzer’s associates last week?”

She bit her lip and nodded, “I did… But I never found two people with motive against the police force who knew each other well enough to work in tandem the way our killers do. I’m starting to think that my fa- that Pulitzer might have known them… In an unofficial capacity.”

“Do you have any way of verifying that?” Spot squinted at the young woman, a headache forming at the base of his skull, “or any way of contacting any of your father’s cronies?”

“The hell does that mean?” Jack was standing before Katherine could respond and, instinctually, Spot followed him up.

As with every other meeting, Race dejectedly accepted that his friend and his partner would never be able to work on the same wavelength as long as this was the case they were pursuing. Neither man had an ounce of tact in their tiny brains or enough patience to talk out their problems like adults, it was beginning to be quite the annoying pattern. Spot said something, Jack got mad, Spot got mad, and Race and Kath had to break them up or they'd probably start a physical fight wherever they were, consequences be damned.

Jack took a menacing step towards Spot, who growled at him in frustration, once again reminding himself that he hated Manhattan and he hated Jack Kelly and he really wished he wasn’t trying to work on punching less people. Race’s hand found Spot’s shoulder and it grounded him enough to realize his fists were clenched at his side, nails digging into his palms from the pressure. Across from them, Katherine placed herself in front of Jack, muttering soothing words into her partner’s ear.

“Excuse me,” Medda began darkly, obviously having been forgotten in the tension, “calm down or get the hell out of my office. I’m done putting up with this from you two, you're on the same side.” When no one moved, she continued, this time with real heat, “Sit down. Right now, Jack Kelly, or you won’t even be on desk duty.”

With a jerky nod, Jack slammed himself back into his chair and the agitated air between the five of them almost immediately began diminishing. Spot, however, didn’t sit back down. He was too worked up to have a calm discussion with Jack, and he didn’t actually want to hurt anyone’s feelings. So, with a halfassed apology, he excused himself from the office and all but stormed out.

“Well that went wonderfully. Again.” Race’s sarcasm broke the silence, he remembered back to thinking he couldn’t be irritated with Jack due to the circumstances… Well, Jack always said he was an expert at proving people wrong. Not only was Race now annoyed with Jack, but he was shocked to find himself resolutely on his new partner’s side. There was definitely a first for everything, Race couldn't even count the number of things he and Spot agreed about on one hand.

Katherine barked out a startled laugh, “I was  _ going  _ to tell Conlon I’d try to look further into the people Pulitzer hired on the side but I’m not sure how or where to start, there may be someone I can call on the inside… If I find anything concrete,” she directed at Race, “I’ll let you know.”

He nodded and looked towards his captain, “I’m gonna go find Spot and we’ll track down the reports of all the places that have been hit in the last two months where an identical poker chip was left behind… Maybe, if we can find a pattern, we can figure out where our guys are going to go next.”

“Good. In the meantime,” Medda looked at Jack, “you need to help Katherine and comb through every report from every case they find. We’re going to catch these sons of bitches.”

* * *

 

Race found Spot on the roof.

It was the second place he’d checked after looking across the bullpen and seeing both his desk and the space behind Crutchie’s desk sat empty. First, he’d gone to the training rooms to see if Spot was destroying another of District 12’s punching bags. Then, when that was a bust, he’d gone up. That was Spot’s pattern and the only thing he did other than argue with Jack that was easily predictable. If he was frustrated, he’d punch the hell out of a sandbag. If he was  _ upset  _ he’d hide out on the roof until he wasn’t anymore.

Something about anger management or… Whatever.

Race made sure to make a commotion as he approached his sometimes volatile partner, not wanting to end up on the wrong side of his already frayed temper, “Jack means well," he started, ignoring how tightly Spot's eyes clenched shut at his voice, "but he’s stressed out and high strung and he doesn’t know you well enough to know you don't mean anything by your questions. He’s a bit… Protective of Kath.”

Spot continued to stare at the Manhattan skyline, but he wasn’t scowling anymore so Race continued speaking, “For what it’s worth,  _ I  _ know you’re trying to help us catch these guys.”

“That’s the damn problem.”

Race blinked, his partner sounded weary and he  _ hated  _ it with a sudden passion. “I’m sorry?”

Spot finally turned away from the edge of the building and towards Racetrack, “You’re literally the only person in that building besides Medda who doesn’t act like I’m here to stomp on their kittens.”

“...  _ Are  _ you here to curbstomp kittens?”

Spot jerked away with a huff of, “goddammit Race.”

Shocked at both the use of his nickname and the frustration in Spot’s tone, Race softly began talking again, “Ok, first of all, no one thinks that about you… Second of all, even if everyone else did, Crutchie doesn’t… So really, it would be me, Medda  _ and Crutchie _ who trusted you to not…. Stomp out our kittens. And Crutchie is the best judge of character, guy's got wicked intuition .”

With a sneer, Spot looked away again, “you think this is a fucking joke, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t. I just… Didn’t realize this bothered you so much.” Suddenly, Race felt horrible for his partner. For the first time, he imagined how he would have coped with being forced out of his district and into another one in a different city with such a difficult first case. ‘ _Not well_ ,’ his brain supplied.

“It doesn’t  _ bother  _ me-”, “-I’m sorry.”

They stared at each other, both too stubborn to continue.

Finally, Race opened his mouth only for his phone to interrupt what he had been about to say by ringing. Saved by the bell.

“Higgins…  _ What _ ?” he shot a glance at Spot, who was looking at him intently, “When? Yeah… Yeah… Okay, we’re on our way.” He hung up and reached out a hand to help his partner up, “That was Romeo. He and Elmer responded to a call about a bank robbery in progress… When they got there, the perps were leaving.”

“... And?” 

The two started moving for the roof access stairs, their previous moment forgotten in light of that new development.

“And they tried to  _ stop  _ them from leaving, but our guys opened fire and ducked into a grocery store.”

“Shit. Hostages?”

Race nodded grimly, “yeah, at least six people were at the front of the store but we aren’t too sure about the back, yet.”

“Fuck, okay. And we’re sure  _ these  _ guys are  _ our  _ guys?” 

“Two men in ski masks with semi automatic weapons and a penchant for poker chips and bank robberies… They just missed a newly installed silent alarm near the vault… Teller hit the button, they shot her, cops came before they could escape.”

“Alright, good enough… Let’s get these assholes, Race.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen here, I am not a cop and this is not a well researched fic so any and all inaccuracies are my fault but lets uh... utilize suspension of disbelief from here on out

When they arrived at the crime scene, Spot was shocked to see Katherine and Jack also pulling up in their department regulated SUV next to Romeo and Elmer, who were crouched behind their own vehicle. He turned inquisitively to Race only to see a similar look plastered across his face.

“I was under the impression that Kelly and Plumber were benched by Captain Larkin for the entirety of this investigation.”

“She definitely benched them," he shrugged, "I guess we need the manpower for this one.”

Spot snorted, “yeah or Kelly has delusions of grandeur and he thinks he can trade himself for the hostages in a heroic feat of self sacrifice.”

Race swallowed thickly, “yeah, or that.”

As they were approaching their friends, Race began taking everything in. A perimeter of officers were situated outside of the small mom and pop shop, and he assumed there was a similar line around the back of the building too. He saw Specs standing off to the side speaking to a well dressed, hysterical woman with a notepad and an attentive look on his face. An ambulance was parked, lights still flashing, down the street in front of what he assumed was the originally targeted bank. There was an electric thrum in the air, every single person knew what was at stake if they made one mistake. Race’s adrenaline began to rise in expectation for the conflict to come and he had to take a few breaths to relieve the uncomfortable tautness that had begun to overtake his own muscles.

Like a well oiled machine, the two of them moved identically to situate themselves between Katherine and Romeo, then they looked expectantly between them and their partners. Jack looked away in an obvious manner, trying and failing to ignore their scrutinizing gazes. 

Romeo cleared his throat, “When we responded to the original distress call, the perps were fleeing out the front. We cut them off and they opened fire… Elmer winged one of them, we think that’s why they ducked in this here store.”

“Okay, okay,” Spot looked at Race, “we can use that, one of them being hurt….” 

“Yeah, definitely… Now,” Racetrack turned towards a fidgeting Jack, “what the  _ hell  _ are you doing here?”

Katherine chortled despite the heaviness of the situation, and shrugged helplessly when Jack looked at her in betrayal. Romeo and Elmer both slid down towards another group to give the four of them a semblance of privacy.

“He couldn’t stay away.” She said, once they were out of earshot.

Spot’s curiosity turned into cement in his chest, “So you’re here, jeopardizing our mission and our fucking lives because you just wanted to be here? Boo fucking hoo, why don’t you trust us to do our damned jobs, Kelly?”

Jack winced, for once not rising to the bait, “I do trust you guys, I just… I have to see this through.” He looked at Spot earnestly, eyes pleading for understanding. 

“Fine,” Spot agreed, realizing that Jack wasn't going to budge no matter what he said, “but you stay down and you listen to us… No fucking heroics, Medda’s already going to fucking fire me for not forcing your ass into the nearest squad car.”

No matter what kind of weird understanding they'd appeared to reach, Race didn't want to risk Spot and Jack getting into any form of disagreement in the parking lot of an in progress hostage situation so he did the one thing he knew he was good at... He pissed his partner off with a sly grin, “She won’t just fire you Spotty, don’t worry.” 

Attention successfully diverted away from Jack and Katherine, Spot whirled around ready to smack Higgins, “Did I or did I not tell you not to fucking call me that?”

The two of them bickered quietly to themselves for a moment to calm their nerves. The banter was familiar, it was easy. The task in front of them was dire, yes, but it could wait another twelve seconds while they steadied themselves; the hostages didn't need them to be distracted and nervous. At that moment, they were closer than they'd ever been to catching these guys and any mistakes they could potentially make could end in tragedy for them and the civilians inside.  Finally, Race straightened and somberly patted Spot’s shoulder. He pulled his phone out from his jacket pocket and began dialing Crutchie’s desk phone.

* * *

 

Davey had been standing over Crutchie’s desk helping him and Katherine to go over a list of names that Kath had procured from  _ somewhere  _ in Pulitzer’s inner circle when Jack came running from his office. The older boy placed a gentle hand on the small of his back the millisecond he was close enough to and Davey found himself leaning in to it as though it were a lifeline. Bless him, since the attack, Jack had been almost clingy towards him and Crutchie, not that Davey could really blame him. He appreciated the silent gestures for what they were: reassurance that they were still alive.

“What’s wrong?” Crutchie glanced up at Jack halfheartedly, and continued scanning his list for something concrete.

“Kath, we’ve gotta go.”

Now all three of them looked at Jack. Davey was frowning softly, Crutchie’s brow was furrowed in confusion and Katherine shook her head like she’d misheard him.

In fact, she was looking at her partner as though he’d grown a second head, “Come again? Where, pray tell, are we going?”

Jack blew out a frustrated breath, “E and R just called in a hostage situation… They think it’s our guys.”

“That means,” David interjected, “that you  _ shouldn’t  _ go anywhere near where they are! What with your current desk assignment from the Captain and all.”

With an eye roll and a dismissive gesture, Jack replied, “I’m going with or without you, babe.” And with that, Jack strode towards the doors of the precinct. 

Mockingly, Katherine mimicked Jack's voice, "Babe my ass." She looked between Davey’s wide eyes and Crutchie’s uncommonly scowling face and frowned herself, “I’m not letting him go alone, no matter how much of an ass he makes of himself. I’ll take care of him, guys, don’t worry." She began walking away and distractedly added over her shoulder, "I’ll text you the address when we get there, maybe you’ll be able to hack into the security feed and be our eyes."

Meekly, Davey wished them safety. And then they were gone.

“Fucking asshole!” Crutchie growled, hands slamming into his lap helplessly, “I’m tired of being stuck in this damn chair in this damn office. This is useless!"

"It's not useless," Davey disagreed, "it's different to what you used to do but we can help them better from here than at the scene."

Counting to ten and then taking a deep breath, Crutchie nodded, "Okay, yeah... I know you're right, Dave."

There was a beat of silence and then Dave broke it, “Well, C, I guess we should keep looking for these guys’ identities… Maybe we can surprise them.”

So that’s what the two of them did.

Not too much time had passed before Katherine’s number appeared with a four digit address and another blanket reassurance that Jack wasn’t going to get anywhere near the sight-lines of his would be assassins. At that point, Davey utilized his technological background to do what Medda had originally hired him for. He accessed the security cameras within the grocery store only to see two men in black standing in the middle of a circle of hostages. One of them was slumped over slightly, so Dave assumed that guy had been the one reportedly injured in the shootout. Through what Jack would call ' the power of technology', he activated the cameras near the front registers, which also had audio capabilities. All at once, he and Crutchie were watching the feed like it was a TV show drama. When the phone in front of Crutchie started ringing, the two of them were too engrossed in the footage to startle as they’d been doing since they’d been ambushed those months ago.

Instead, Crutchie picked it up with a slightly trembling hand, “Morris.” He looked at  Davey and nodded towards his list of names as an indicator that he needed to keep looking.

_ “Crutchie, it’s Race.” _

Without meaning to, the blond man chuckled, “Yeah I know, I have caller ID, brother.”

_ “Fuck off.” _ The fondness was obvious in the other man’s tone,  _ “Kath says you guys might be able to give us some details from inside?” _

“Yeah, we're looking at security camera footage now. There’s nine hostages in a semicircle around our two guys, Race there's a kid in that store. One of the perps is injured… Pretty badly from the looks of him. The other seems fine.”

_ “Are they saying anything?” _

“Nothing that’s given away their identities yet, boss.”

Race hummed,  _ “These our guys?” _

“Yeah,” he gulped, sharing a wide eyed look with a nodding Dave, “they are.”

He was touched when Race didn’t question him, out of everything that came from the attack, Crutchie hated that people treated him differently. It was as though they were removing his agency as well as his ability to walk. While he was injured, he was not an imbecile, and it hurt to think that people felt the need to tiptoe around him. He even got upset _for_ Davey, who was more anxious than he used to be but still a capable adult and didn't need to be coddled by everyone. Race didn’t. Neither did Spot or Medda. Everyone else did it on occasion, even Jack. It was frustrating.

His internal monologue was interrupted by Race, “Okay, _ hey. Can you send me the store’s phone number? We want to attempt to make contact, maybe get some hostages out of there.” _

Even though he couldn’t see him, Crutchie nodded in assent. He listed off the number from a quick google search and wished Racetrack good luck. In return, he told Crutchie what comm channel they’d be using if he and Dave wanted to listen in or contribute any new information before they finally hung up. Turning to Davey, Crutchie knew that they needed something from both the criminals and their team in order to figure out _who_ these two men were.

* * *

 

The moment the phone rang, Oscar knew they were out of options. Morris was leaning against a nearby snack display, hand gripping his side tightly. Blood was still pooling around him and didn’t seem to be slowing anytime soon, that fucking cop got a lucky shot but it didn’t matter anymore. 

He looked at his weakening brother, then at the horrified hostages. Then, against Morris’s urging, Oscar picked up the phone.

* * *

 

_ “What?” _

Race looked down at his phone alarmed, as if it had been the one to snap at him. He honestly hadn’t been expecting anyone to pick up, therefore he hadn’t been prepared to use the negotiation tactics he’d had to study in a mandatory class. His silence, apparently, was noted by their irate bad guy.

_ “What?!” _

“My name is Antonio Higgins with the Manhattan Police Department, who am I speaking to?”

_ “The guy who’s gonna blow these nice people away if you don’t send a doctor in for my bro- man.” _

Across the city, Davey and Crutchie, who had been listening to both their team’s comm channel and the security camera footage, smiled between each other. That slip up might have been the key missing from identifying these two. Narrowing the search parameters to two  _ brothers  _ under the age of forty reduced their list from fifty-eight to six. Now they just had to find the link between those six men, Pulitzer and the police force.

Race’s response was nearly lost among their excitement, “I’ll see what I can do for your uh, your friend… In the meantime, why don’t you show me some good faith and let a hostage go… I know there’s a child in that store with their mother, let the kid go. You’ll still have eight people to bargain with.”

_ “Fuck off. Send a doctor in in ten minutes or I’ll send that bitch out in a bodybag. If you try to send in a single cop, I'll know. I'll know and then everyone will fucking die! Do you hear me?” _

The line went dead before Race could respond.

To his team he said, “Fuck, okay… I can’t send a civilian into that store… But what if he’s not bluffing about knowing who’s a cop and who isn’t?”

Spot placed a reassuring hand on his partner’s back to steady him and then looked at Jack and Katherine, who both looked nauseous at the prospect of this guy shooting a child.

A resounding whoop sounded in their ears and suddenly, Crutchie’s excited voice was chirping victoriously.

_ “Dave figured out who these guys are!” _

Jack made a choked noise of surprise, “Really? After two months, a three minute conversation was enough to ID these assholes?”

This time, Davey responded, “ _ He messed up. When he asked for a doctor, he almost said it was for his ‘brother’. From there we cross referenced Katherine’s list of names to brothers. Then we narrowed it down based on interactions with the cops… We’re ninety-eight percent sure that our hostage takers are Oscar and Morris Delancey… Two brothers with a rap sheet about as long as you’d expect that of two assassins for hire to be.” _

Katherine gasped softly, she’d known those two. She’d had  _ dinner _ with them years ago at her father’s house… She was hit with a wave of self hatred, she should’ve known immediately who the two assassins had been. What kind of cop couldn’t connect such obvious dots?

“What’s uh, what’s the other two percent, Dave?” Jack asked, unaware of his partner’s inner turmoil.

The man on the other end of the line chuckled nervously,  _ “Uhm, human error?” _

“Do we know what their motives are?” Race interjected.

_ “Other than being Pulitzer’s lap dogs?”  _ Crutchie asked, “ _ Yeah. Davey found a case where their uh, previous employer… A Mr. Weasel was shot and killed by… Oh shit.” _

Spot made an impatient noise in the back of his throat, “What?!”

“ _ Weasel was shot and killed by...  Detective Medda Larkin four months before she was injured during the Snyder case and forced into her desk job as our captain.” _

“So our perps,” Jack began, “Have a personal grudge against Miss. Medda, ties to Pulitzer, and previous violent offenses?” He looked at Race, “I don’t know about you, but I’d say these are our assholes, Racer.”

Higgins nodded sharply, “Crutchie? Is there  _ anything  _ in that file of yours that indicates that they’d know if we sent someone in undercover as a doctor?”

“ _ Um, yeah, actually.” _ It was Davey who responded, “ _ We found emails from an encrypted IP Address… It’s uh, Us. Our files.” _

The four of them looked at each other, all of them too shocked to speak for a moment.

_ “Wait! No. They don’t have everyone’s information.” _

“What do you mean, C?” Race questioned.

_ “They have everyone in District 12’s files… Except for Spot’s.” _


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I've learned so far from posting a multi-chaptered fic is that I'm way too impatient to adhere to a posting schedule. My main problem is that I usually write one shots and I can post them and then just vanish/generally pretend like it isn't my work out in the internet being read and judged. My second problem is that I was done with chapter 3 within the same hour that I posted chapter 1 and by the end of that same day, I'd finished the rest of the story which made me want to just post all of it at once... Originally, I was just going to post a chapter a day but obviously I failed there because I've resorted to however many I feel like per day lol. I guess it doesn't really matter as the end result will always be all of it is posted!  
> This is a general thanks for kudos/comments, I'm too shy to directly respond to people but I want you to know that I see and appreciate your thoughts! We're near the end!

After that revelation, the man in question cocked his head to the side and looked at his partner through long lashes, “It makes sense… They’d been watching you guys _before_ the first attack… They had no need or interest to know who you guys brought in after the fact.”

Race nodded slowly, eyeing Spot suspiciously, “Anything else Dave? Crutchie?”

Both replied to the negative, and suddenly all was quiet again.

Spot looked between Jack, Katherine, Race, the men still in the perimeter formation around the store, and finally to the offending shop itself as though it held the answers he needed. No one was looking at him, though, when he made his decision. Everyone was trying to find a solution that wasn't the offensively obvious one and he wasn't the type of person to beat around the proverbial bush.

“Let me go in.”

Race’s eyes shot to his, widening in opposition. Before his partner could get out anything more than a squeaked, “you said _what_ now?” Jack and Katherine were clamoring with disapproval. Had he not already been under the impression that they didn’t trust him to see this case through, Spot’s feelings might have been hurt by their immediate criticism. Instead of repeating himself, Spot just rolled his eyes dramatically.

Jack was shaking his head, saying something along the lines of his plan being "absolutely ridiculously stupid."

Realizing they had about four more minutes to send someone in, and that his posse of pissed off police personnel wasn’t going to back down anytime soon, Spot stood up from behind cover and clicked his earpiece off. He began walking down the street towards the ambulance that was still parked in front of the bank. Immediately, he heard someone scrambling after him. Unsurprisingly, it was Race. He was prepared to plead his case but the argument died on his lips as he took in his partner’s frazzled appearance. Without meaning to, Spot slowed down enough for Race to catch up with him.

“Spot.. Sean are you _crazy_?!”

He’d been expecting the angry tone but he flinched despite himself at the use of his given name, Race sounded upset in a way Spot hadn’t heard before. That alone invoked an emotion he wasn't comfortable confronting right before he was going to walk into an active hostage situation. With a sick feeling building in his stomach, Spot realized that he was _nervous_ . Had his hands not been in his pockets, there was a very good chance that they’d be shaking. He smirked to himself sardonically, he hadn’t been nervous in years. Suddenly, he lives in Manhattan and he’s getting fucking nervous. With little heat, he hysterically repeated his internal mantra: _‘I hate Manhattan. I hate these people. Race is annoying. Fucking Manhattan is the problem.’_

Out loud, he said, “Race, you and I both know we can’t send a civilian into that store.”

“Yes, obviously you absolute neanderthal. But we can’t send you in either!” His partner was gesticulating wildly, obviously trying (and failing) to hide how frantic the thought of sending his partner into the line of fire made him.

Without breaking stride for a second time, Spot huffed out an angry laugh, “There isn’t anyone else. You and I both know it, Antonio.”

Race’s head shook wildly, “What if these guys _do_ know about you being a cop? You didn’t exactly make a quiet fucking exit from Brooklyn!”

“We have no evidence that suggests they know I’m a cop at all, let alone one in Medda’s district. We’re also out of time here. If I don’t go in… That kid in there is going to die and so will the other hostages. It has to be me, man.”

“Who has fucking delusions of self sacrificial grandeur now, Conlon?” Race demanded, “You have no fucking clue if Oscar and Morris Delancey know about your transfer or not and if they _do_ , this is suicide!”

Spot grimaced, they’d finally made it to the ambulance, and his partner had a point. Not that he would acknowledge it in anything but passing. He knocked three times, and told the man inside to give him a uniform and a medical bag. All the while, he ignored his shrieking partner. It meant a lot more than he was comfortable admitting to know that Race legitimately cared, they'd gotten off to a tense, rocky start. Suddenly, the opposition the rest of his teammates showed to his suggestion that he go in made more sense. It was _possible_ that the thought of his team actively caring about his well being warmed his heart… Though he’d never admit it if it did.

Spot quickly ducked behind the side of the truck to change into the paramedic’s garb. He was hoping he wouldn't need it for long, the shirt was slightly too big for him which resulted in it being tucked in with the sleeves rolled up. He felt more like a child playing dress-up than a twenty some odd year old man who'd just changed out of a police uniform. He already missed the comfort the gun on his hip brought. Refocusing on his current predicament, Spot opened his mouth to explain himself but suddenly his dumb partner wouldn’t meet his eyes. So, with a sigh, he forced Race to make eye contact with him by placing an forcibly steadied hand on his chin.

“Listen to me, we have two minutes to get someone in that store. We don't have time to wait for anyone else to get here. Maybe they do know who I am, maybe they don’t, but they _definitely_ know who the rest of you are and Race, if there’s even the smallest chance that I can keep them from shooting someone else, I’ll take it.”

“You realize you're destroying your bad-boy reputation, right?”

He sighed dramatically, “Yeah, well... No one will believe you. Plus, I don't  _hate_ Davey or Crutchie so this isn't all about protecting the people in that store."

Race chuckled to himself, "Definitely destroying your own persona." he sobered, "We're going to be right outside, we've got your back."

Now Spot snickered, "If anything goes wrong and I end up needing your 'backup', I want you to shoot seventy bullets into their stupid faces, killing them instantly.”

They were halfway back to the store at that point, and Spot could feel his heart start to pound despite his attempts to remain calm. He wasn't ready to hold so many lives in his hands, he hadn't even had that responsibility in Brooklyn. Back then, his leadership was purely in an unofficial capacity and only to a few guys he'd worked with for a long time. This was, in his opinion, rather blind trust in his behalf on the part of his partner.

“You’re a fucking suicidal asshole, Conlon.”

“I’m a perfectly stable individual who is going to be fine.”

Race nodded, blinking back tears of worry, “Yeah, and then I’m going to lie and tell Medda that _you’re_ the one who told Jack about this damn situation and she’s gonna fire you. Then you’ll be a totally stable, _jobless_ , asshole.”

Spot laughed outright at that, and clasped Race’s newly outstretched hand. Together, they made the rest of the short trek back to Jack and Katherine, who’d resumed their original position near Elmer and Romeo. Jack patted him awkwardly on the shoulder, trying not to let his disdain for their current situation show. Katherine just nodded imperceptibly towards Spot.

Race’s phone shuddered as Oscar called back.

_“You sending in my man?”_

“Yeah, Delancey.” He ignored the sputtering on the other end of the line that confirmed their suspicions. It was definitely the Delancey brothers, though he wasn’t sure _which_ one he was talking to.

_“You remember what I said about any fucking cops?”_

“Of course. We’d never put the people you’re holding in that kind of danger on purpose. We want this to end as peacefully as it can, okay?”

Race could practically picture the other man’s sneer from his tone, _“I want a fully gassed up armored van backed up to the front doors of this store by the time my brother is ready to go.”_

Race told him it would be done, then asked again for a hostage to be sent out in return but as suddenly as the words were out of his mouth, the line was dead. He turned to Spot, “You keep your earbud in… He won’t see it unless he’s really looking for it, and the hope here is that he’ll be too preoccupied to look for it… Act nervous, act shaky… You’re supposed to be a scared as hell civilian paramedic, not a fucking fearless cop from Brooklyn okay?”

Switching his earbud back on he said, “Believe it or not, I did some acting in high school and I _do_ experience human emotion, I think I’ll be fine.” 

At that, Jack broke himself out of his silent brooding, “When you come back out here, you better be prepared to share that story with the class, Conlon. I pegged you for wrestling, not theater.”

Spot sent his colleague his best ‘fuck off’ glare then straightened the collar of his shirt and began the slow walk out of cover and towards the front of the store.

* * *

 

Crutchie and Davey sat nervously back at the precinct, with an irritated Medda Larkin standing as still as a statue over their shoulders. To say she had been shocked to come out of an important meeting with the governor only to find her people trying to diffuse a hostage situation was an understatement. To say she was _furious_ to find out that Jack Kelly, the little bastard, had gone to the scene despite the people who wanted him dead being only a street's width away was also underplaying the levels of unadulterated rage coursing through her veins. The most prevalent of her emotions, however, was worry.

Worry not only for Jack but also because Sean Conlon had only worked for her for a month and a half and already the boy was literally walking into a life or death situation for her other personnel. It had been a shock to hear that he’d _volunteered_ himself to go in. When he’d first come in from Brooklyn, he’d reminded her of Jack in so many ways… Stubborn as hell with a bit of a mean streak and an innate leadership quality but he also had a reputation as a hardass. She had felt like Sean'd be a good balancing act for her wildcard, Antonio Higgins and she'd been right. Despite their bickering, the two of them worked well together. On the other hand, she hadn’t expected nearly  _everyone else_ to butt heads with Conlon, but then again, she hadn’t expected him to be as patient with David’s rambling as he was. He was full of surprises, Conlon, a good kid hiding behind a facade of anger and she wanted the chance to nurture him into the type of cop she knew he could be.

She also wanted to give him a home at District 12 with all of her people.

But first, he had to live through the paranoid man pointing a gun in his face.  _Then_ he had to live through the mother of all lectures she was preparing for him.

Through the grainy footage in front of her, she could see Spot’s hands slowly raise above his head as the newly unmasked gunman, Oscar Delancey, demanded he open his bag to check for weapons. The kid looked like he was thinking about jumping Delancey for half a second before Crutchie was saying:

“Spot, don’t even think about it. Morris is still conscious enough that even if you disarm Oscar, he could still shoot someone. Don't risk it.” Really, Crutchie meant ‘he could still shoot _you_.’ Medda found herself frowning harder than she had been before.

She decided then and there that she’d kill Jack for disobeying her orders and Spot for walking into that store defenseless. Fuck the heroics.

 _“You ain’t a cop?”_ Oscar sounded shocked. That was good, that meant that he really didn’t know about Spot’s transfer.

Spot shook his head frantically, “ _N-no sir… I’m here to help him!_ ” Medda smiled, kid was a damn fine actor, he sounded like he was about to piss himself.

Evidently, he was good enough for Delancey as well, because he shoved Spot towards his brother roughly. With a demand that he fix the bloodied form, Oscar turned away and began pacing on the other side of the aisle by the hostages. They could hear the constant rumble of his voice, but not what he was saying.

Davey sucked in a startled breath as Race’s small voice came through the comms, “ _You guys,”_ He was talking to the other officers on scene, “ _If he so much as takes a threatening breath in Sp- Sean’s direction, we’re going in… You hear me?”_ The reminder was clear to everyone: there was still so much potential for everything to go wrong.

That’s about the time that everything _did_ start to go wrong.

Morris, apparently, decided that _that moment_ was the moment he wanted to pass out from blood loss. Spot had barely gasped out a “ _Shit!”_ as Delancey number two slumped bonelessly into his arms. He was quick to apply a gauze dressing to the already dying man’s wound, but everyone connected to him through the comms heard his breathless, “ _He’s lost way too much blood, I don’t think he’s going to last much longer.”_

Unfortunately for Spot, the man’s brother heard his confession too. He whipped around, gun raised, wild eyed and shrieking about killing Spot and all of the hostages if he didn’t keep his brother alive. Vaguely, as screams began penetrating the silent air, Medda remembered her rotten feeling from that morning. Her instincts had told her that something bad was going to happen. Race was already ordering his team to infiltrate the building but in her heart, Medda knew they wouldn't get there fast enough.

Spot dropped his facade of fearful paramedic, “ _Li_ _sten man, I’m doing everything I can with what I have but he's dying!”_

Now, only hours after Medda had pushed those horrible feelings out of the forefront of her mind, the sound of a gunshot reverberated through the office and forced them back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that like the past three chapters have ended on cliffhangers kind of. Oops.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not too happy with the flow of some of this chapter near the middle and end, but I'm far too lazy to revise it anymore than I already have. It's officially complete! I might come back to this AU later, so if you want be looking out for that!  
> It was fun to write something longer than normal, so I might do more of that later too. Who know?  
> Thank you all for humoring me and ignoring my blatant misunderstanding of police procedure and scene pacing lol <3

He’d been expecting it, and yet somehow the sound of the gunshot still managed to make him jump. The real shock came with the impact. One second he was trying to negotiate with all the grace of someone from Brooklyn with someone who was, admittedly, a little bit… Absent, in the sanity department. The next moment, his breath was gone and he was sprawled out on the floor.

Distantly, over the screams of the terrified hostages and the ringing in his ears, he heard Race’s voice. Well, he heard several voices, but the only one he could actually focus on was his partner’s. To himself, he admitted that that was a little melodramatic, but the resounding  _ Pop! Pop! Pop! _ of his allies shooting what he hoped to be Oscar Delancey made it impossible for him to focus on why his brain was so foggy. At least he hadn’t heard the bastard shoot anyone else.

With the rest of his body refusing to cooperate, Spot turned his head slightly in an attempt to see what was happening only to end up looking directly into the face of the  _ fucker  _ who’d chosen the worst possible moment to die. Then Race’s voice was back, frantic inside his head, and this time he could make out Crutchie and Jack too in the sea of speaking and ringing. Spot gathered his strength to respond, but instead of words, blood spilled out of his mouth.

Fuck. He hated Manhattan. He hated Manhattan and everyone in it. He hated the criminals of Manhattan and he hated the hostages of Manhattan who were  _ still  _ screaming. Couldn’t they shut up for twelve seconds? Fuck, he’d  _ just  _ said that to Race that morning too. Who knew everything from that moment on would go on to suck so fucking hard?

There was a hand on his neck that hadn’t been there before and several people asking him several questions. He was far too dizzy to respond. Belatedly, he realized that half of his problems were due to the fact that he was holding his breath. He blamed that on his brain deciding to take a hike. 

Joining Race, Jack and Crutchie, Katherine’s calm voice was suddenly filling his head, telling him to inhale, to breathe. So he did. He took in a big, shuddering, gasp and suddenly, everything stopped moving in slow motion.

What had felt like an eternity before had very clearly only been seconds.  _ That’s  _ why the hostages were still screaming, because all that shit had happened in those few seconds from Delancey shooting him to his first breath. Speaking of, he was alive and breathing. That was a good sign, he decided. That, hopefully, meant that the vest he’d kept on under his borrowed uniform did the job it was designed to do. The blood in his mouth, which he’d originally assumed meant his lungs were shredded, was being caused by his newly bitten tongue. 

Fantastic.

He still couldn’t do much in the way of moving, but he began pushing himself up on his elbows anyway, only to jump when the hand that had previously been feeling his pulse was suddenly on his chest, halting his progress.

Just like magic, the veil of darkness was gone and the residual ringing was quiet enough that he could make out the tones of those around him. He peered into the horrified eyes of one Antonio “Racetrack” Higgins… Who was taking. To him. Race was speaking in what might as well have been a different language with all that Spot could understand him. Finally, he forced a shaking hand up and over Race’s mouth.

“M’fine… It’s in the vest. S’everyone else okay?”   


* * *

 

Jack had never been so ecstatic to hear someone sound so godawful before. He and Race had made eye contact a millisecond before Delancey’s shot went off. At about the same moment, Race’s shrill voice was giving everyone the order for them to move into the store. The next few seconds had seemed like forever. He, Kath, Race and the other members of their original perimeter forced their way into the store just in time to see Spot hit the ground. Someone, it might have been him, but it could have been literally anyone else, shot three bullets into Delancey as he aimed at a nearby hostage. Then, it was quiet.

His entire body whipped around towards where he’d last seen Spot, who hadn’t moved since going down. Two months ago he should’ve died in the ambush that left his two best friends injured and today, he should’ve offered himself up in exchange for the other hostages. Spot hadn’t even known him when the man that shot him had gotten the order to kill him. He had no reason to be the one to die for this case. Through the thick layers of fear clouding his brain, Jack heard Katherine instructing Spot to breathe. The instant he did was when Jack started breathing again too, he wasn’t dead.

Their colleague inhaled sharply, coughed a few times and began forcing his way into a sitting position. He nodded in the direction of his friends who were pulling hostages out of the building and then turned to rush over to a frowning Spot, who was being held down by Race and Katherine.

Every horrible scenario washed over Jack in the half minute it took to reach his friends. Once he got to them, the blood adorning the smaller man’s chin and neck was almost enough to drop Jack there, but before he could do or say anything dramatic, Spot spoke.

“M’fine… It’s in the vest. S’everyone else okay?”

Jack had never been so ecstatic to hear someone sound so godawful before. But just the knowledge that Spot had had the foresight to wear something so fundamental in making sure one wasn’t shot and shredded by bullets made him giddy with very desperate brand of happiness. He couldn’t say that he’d have even thought about wearing a vest.

Race let out a frantic giggle, “The vest! It’s just the vest,” then he paused, took a steadying breath and growled, “You fucking dickhead! I thought you were fucking dead!” 

And that was the instant everything returned to normal. In his ear, Jack heard the sighs of relief from what he figured had been a very frantic police precinct. In front of him, Spot grinned tiredly at Race showcasing a mouthful of blood.

“I don’t like getting shot.”

“Could have fucking fooled me.” Jack said, kneeling across from Race, he clasped Spot’s shoulder and swallowed thickly, “Don’t move man, the actual paramedics are coming… I heard someone call for them.”

Spot nodded, then frowned again, “the hostages?”

Racetrack reassured him that everyone was okay, “Except for you, dickwad.”

Spot blinked owlishly at his partner, “I’m fine… Which is more than I can say for any of you idiots if you’d been in my position. Who the  _ fuck  _ doesn’t expect the cop getting shot to wear a fucking vest?”

Recognizing the argument as fodder to keep them occupied, Jack breathed a sigh of relief, and allowed the chatter to become background noise. Katherine’s head found its way to his shoulder and then it was only a matter of waiting for backup.

In the following weeks, not only was Jack reassigned to desk duty as punishment for his “bullheaded, stupid, dumbassed” disobeyment of Medda’s orders, but he was being forced into a weekly group therapy session with Crutchie and David to work off the guilt of getting them hurt. In Medda’s words, he needed to “figure out how to move past the incident and return to normal life without torturing yourself and those around you”.

He appreciated her concern, and that she also forced Spot and Race into the same therapy for their “unending bickering”. Their first case together alone had been pushing them into friendly territory, but they were very rarely in a room together without having some form of argument. For them, what’d started off as a two month old, uneasy partnership had seemingly morphed into genuine friendship overnight. 

Even after the paramedics had entered the grocery store, Race hadn’t let his partner out of his sight. Spot, despite all of his stoicism, had actually had two ribs broken from the impact of the bullet to his vest. He’d also bitten “the fucking shit” out of his tongue, which was where the horror movie levels of blood had come from. Because of that, the poor guy’d also been chained to his desk for the first few days after the incident, so Jack had gotten his chance to apologize for his boarish attitude. He’d also thanked Conlon for going into that store.

(“You didn’t have to, but you did. You helped us catch the guys who hurt my best friends in this world and I can’t repay that.”

“You can repay me, actually.” At Jack’s wide eyed stare, Spot had continued with a self satisfied grin, “You can never, ever,  _ ever  _ say sappy shit like that at me again.”)

From there, Jack and Spot had moved into what they referred to as an allyship. Together, the two of them along with their respective partners and Crutchie and Davey, started a weekly “family dinner” with a couple of the guys from the precinct and Medda.

It was nice to not have to look over his shoulder anymore, Jack decided.

It was  _ super  _ nice to not argue about anything and everything Spot said to him.

(Also, Spot himself had finally stopped chanting internally about how much he hated Manhattan and everyone in it because it was no longer true. Manhattan had become home, and these assholes had become family.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that! I'm happy to post the final, deathless, chapter despite the problems I have with it... I also want to reiterate that I do genuinely love reading your comments, I'm just too much of a baby to reply.


End file.
